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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24944662">Every Picture Tells A Story (the 'Ceci n'est pas un breve' remix)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix'>KrisRix</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Simon Snow &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops &amp; Cafés, Alternate Universe - Non-Magical, Artist Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Awkward Romance, Baker Simon Snow, Can you believe it?, Coffee Shops, Falling In Love, Fluff, Human Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Remix, Slice of Life, my first au</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 08:09:44</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,235</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24944662</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/KrisRix/pseuds/KrisRix</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>It’s another slow day at the coffee shop. Penny’s here, but she’s got her nose in her books. It’s been hard to keep busy, keep my mind occupied. And when I’m not occupied, I start to think....<br/>I hear the bell on the door jingle, and I call out, “Welcome!” When I jump to my feet, I see Baz striding towards me. My face does that awful thing where I turn into a splotchy tomato, I can feel it.<br/>Fuck—<br/>I duck my head and start punching in his order. “Large pumpkin mocha breve?”<br/>Baz slides up to the till and brandishes his credit card in one fluid motion. “What if I wanted something different today?”</em>
</p><hr/><p>Or: a remix of the one where Baz is an artist and Simon is his muse.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dev &amp; Niall &amp; Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Penelope Bunce &amp; Simon Snow &amp; Agatha Wellbelove, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>291</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Carry On Remix</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Every Picture Tells A Story (the 'Ceci n'est pas un breve' remix)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/xivz/gifts">xivz</a>.</li>


        <li>
            Inspired by

            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/18316010">Painted Blind</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/xivz/pseuds/xivz">xivz</a>.
        </li>

    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I adoooore "Painted Blind" by xivz so much, and so this is my "what if" tribute to it (which was meant to be short and now is ... not.)<br/>I've never done an AU before, outside of basic canon-divergence stuff, so this was a really fun challenge!<br/>Eternal thanks to my betas <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Artescapri/pseuds/tbazzsnow">tbazzsnow</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/names_for_dusk">names_for_dusk</a>, and my husband, Simon 🖤 Y'all the real MVPs.<br/>I hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div>
  <p><br/>
<em>“Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind; and therefore is winged Cupid painted blind” - William Shakespeare</em>
  </p>
</div>
<p></p><div class="name">
  <p>BAZ</p>
</div><p>His name tag says ‘Simon’. It’s the sixth thing about him that strikes me.</p><p>The first is his messy bronze hair. As the bell over the coffee shop door announces my entrance, his head turns my way, his curls bouncing. They’re unconstrained despite the red visor he wears as part of his shop uniform.</p><p>Next, there’s the grin he hits me with. I don’t know how to explain it; no words could do it justice. My fingers twitch as I’m overtaken with the desire to recreate the depth of that glowing smile in golden, Escherian strokes. In one instant, it feels as though he’s sucked the air from the room, only to then flood me with something far more vital.</p><p>“Hullo and welcome to Ebb’s,” he greets. A practised line likely spoken dozens of times per shift, and yet he stumbles slightly over the sounds just the same. I note the brief staccato, the faint waver in his tenor, the hint of a Northern accent. My ears burn.</p><p>When I approach the till, realizations four and five hit me at once: he’s mottled with freckles and moles over a ruddy complexion, and his eyes are the most unimpressive blue I’ve ever seen.</p><p>“What can I get you?” he asks.</p><p>I clear my throat and pretend to look bored lest he realize how flustered he’s made me. “Do you still have the pumpkin mocha latte?” It was a drink I found here by accident a few months ago, a delicious autumnal treat. This shop is just out of my way enough that I haven’t been back since. I’ve barely left the flat at all, in fact. I’m only out now because my agent insisted on having a meeting, which was predictably awful.</p><p>It’s a cold, late January day, and my soul has been wrung dry for far too long. I need something <em>good</em>.</p><p>“Not officially,” he says with a one-shouldered shrug and lopsided smile. “But, uh, well, I can still make it. If you want. We’ve got the ingredients.”</p><p>“Can you make it a breve instead?”</p><p>“Sure thing.”</p><p>“Thank you—” My eyes flick to his name tag: ‘Simon’. I can’t bring myself to say it.</p><p>He holds up a cup and marker. “What’s your name? I mean, for, uh, for the cup.”</p><p>I arch my brow at him and quip back, “Obviously.” His smile flips into a scowl, and my stomach goes with it. “It’s Basilton.”</p><p>He hastily scribbles onto the side of my cup. (When I turn it in my hands later, I see he shortened it to ‘Basil’.)</p><p>As he prepares my order, I drink him in.</p><p>He’s so many shapes all at once. Square hands, square jaw, square shoulders. Triangle torso, triangle constellation on his cheek. S-curves in his unruly hair and eager movements and at the corners of his now-downturned lips. Circles, all over his skin—polka-dotted. </p><p>The nozzle of the whipped cream sputters under his clumsy, coffee-stained fingers. “Shit, sorry.” He fumbles with a cloth to clean the overspill.</p><p>“It’s fine, give it here,” I snap. I can’t bear to watch the tendons in his forearms any longer. I need to leave, I need to get this on paper before I forget—</p><p>He grimaces and passes over the dribbling cup. I lick away the excess before putting on the lid. He swallows nervously, as if he expects me to demand to see his manager.</p><p>The drink is better than I remembered, so I have no choice but to keep going back, even though it’s clear my icy demeanour is unwelcome. The shop provides the first hint of warmth I’ve felt in months.</p><p>I’ve been struggling with my artwork lately. (Which sounds almost laughably redundant—what artist isn’t struggling with their craft?) It’s been ages since I’ve so much as sketched. There’s been nothing worth sketching.</p><p>My last show was about my childhood. Well, I suppose it’s more accurate to say my last show was about death and loss. About how I lost my mother—and how it felt like I lost my father, as well. And all the other losses that came with that.</p><p>Creating the pieces felt cathartic for a while. Abstract art can be helpful in that regard. An indirect form of therapy.</p><p>The show was a critical and commercial success … yet personally dissatisfying in the end. It left me bereft in all new ways.</p><p>That is, until he (<em>Simon, Simon, Simon—</em>) pushed that smile into my chest.</p><p>I thought perhaps he was new at being a barista—it would explain his anxious bumbling—but no, he overindulges with the whipped cream every single time. I always have to lick some off, and he always rewards me with that worried gulp of his.</p><p>It’s obscene. There are many mornings where I find myself waking up with a start, thirsting for his showy neck.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for him to stop writing my name on the cup; that doesn’t stop him from shortening my name further, however.</p><p>“Here you go, Baz,” he announces one day while handing over my too-full drink. Mildly confused by the nickname, I don’t manage to reel in my sneer in time.</p><p>That’s the sort of dynamic we’ve fallen into—mild accidental hostility. I never know what to say around him, and it makes me curt at best. I typically opt for frowning in silence. He’s huffy about it, quick to anger. Everyone else is greeted by his warm grin and awkward attempts at humour each time they visit, whereas I was only graced with that blinding smile of his the first time. Ever since, his face falls when he sees it’s me walking through the shop door.</p><p>It becomes routine.</p><p>“Baz,” he’ll grunt by way of greeting. He must think I hate the nickname. (I don’t.)</p><p>I’ll order the same thing as always, pay, and then sit at the bar, watching him. He’ll pile on the whipped cream, and I’ll lick it off. I’ll keep watching him work, and he’ll gripe at me about it.</p><p>“Stop that. You make my skin crawl,” he says once.</p><p>“The feeling’s mutual,” I reply.</p><p>I never say the right things to him. So, I watch.</p><p>He’s beautiful. Pure kinetic energy in a broad, tawny frame. His action line is always morphing. I want to reach into the negative space between his elbow and waist to feel his shifting centre of gravity. I want to peel back his clothes and map his planes, map his moles. His skin is splattered like my canvasses. He makes me itch with need in so many ways.</p><p>I want to tell him. But where could I even begin? What could I say to make him see?</p><p>I drink at the coffee shop twice a week. Then, I go to my studio to pour it all back out in frustrated strokes of graphite, and then I go to bed to pour it out in frustrated strokes of skin against skin.</p><p>My agent booked an exhibition for me before the last one closed, despite how I hadn’t touched my brushes since. I’ve considered firing her and quitting art altogether. It felt appropriately macabre, that I would be stripped of my connection with paint after I finished telling my story of loss.</p><p>I’m still not ready for painting. For that level of productivity, or commitment, or storytelling.... But ... I’m sketching again. And it feels <em>good</em>.</p><p>Soon, though. Soon I’ll have to make the choice.</p><p>Do I cancel? Do I quit? Or do I create?</p><p>I’ve been coming to the coffee shop regularly for two months when I hear his full name for the first time.</p><p>“Simon Snow Salisbury!” a young woman chides. Penelope, I believe. She’s often here, sitting at a table with her books. “You are my best friend; you do <em>not</em> get to take Trixie’s side in this!”</p><p>For some reason, that’s the moment everything clicks; it feels like someone lit a match inside my heart.</p><p>Bold bronze bounce. Glowing gorgeous grin. Wobbly wavering words. Freckled frenetic flush. Boring basic blues.</p><p>Simon Snow Salisbury.</p><p>How absurd.</p><p>Like always, I sit with my drink and watch him work. I soak in every detail possible.</p><p>Fire licks through me in a way I haven’t felt in years. Or … possibly ever.</p><p>I make my choice.</p><p><em>I’m going to capture you</em>, I tell him in my head. <em>My next gallery showing is going to only be you. Every thought in my head is only you. Blue eyes. Bronze curls. The vibrancy thrumming just under your skin. The fact that you are so </em>alive<em>. And I’m falling in love with you.</em></p><p>“Until next time, <em>Snow</em>,” I tell him out loud as I stand to leave.</p><p>The hot rush of blood to his cheeks does wicked things to me. And so, that is the subject of my first gallery piece of Simon Snow Salisbury.</p><p>The first of many.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="name">
  <p>SIMON</p>
</div><p>Seven months this wanker has been coming to the shop. He gets his awful candy bar drink and laps up the whipped cream as if this isn’t a family-friendly establishment. And then he sits at the bar like he owns the place, and he <em>watches</em> me.</p><p>Sometimes it’s only for a minute or two, other times it’ll go on so long I want to scream.</p><p>Like today.</p><p>It’s always slow around this time. I’m the only one on shift, and I’m cleaning off tables and refilling the napkins and all that, but there’s still not enough work to distract me from Baz’s fucking staring. It’s late summer, and he’s wearing a pale short-sleeved button-up with lilacs all over it, and his trousers are that thin linen sort. They stretch over his stupid footballer thighs. What’s the point of even wearing trousers when they fit like that?</p><p>I shouldn’t think about that. He came by once with some mates, all decked out in footie kits, and I almost choked. His shorts showed off more leg than I know what to do with. Baz is <em>all</em> legs. It’s infuriating. No one should be this perfect. Muscular, with a smooth, rich complexion everywhere I’ve seen, and that bloody pout he’s always wearing.</p><p>Baz is nefariously good-looking. In fact, he’s nefarious, full stop. Always coming around here and watching me like I’m some kind of poorly trained monkey he finds pathetically amusing. (God, I get so fucking clumsy when I feel his eyes on me.) Or like I’m his next meal. He’s got serious vampire vibes—sleek black hair to his shoulders with a widow’s peak and bone structure that could cut diamonds. With broody, stormy grey eyes that make my spine tingle.</p><p>Nefarious.</p><p>I want to tell him to fuck off. He finished his drink ages ago, he shouldn’t still be kicking around. But the place is dead, and it’d be pretty hypocritical of me—Penny sits at one of the tables while she studies all the time, and she never buys a damn thing, and Baz <em>knows</em> it. Sometimes I even see them chatting.</p><p>Well, can’t really consider Baz’s tight-lipped comments “chatting”, I suppose. The prat doesn’t say much at all. He’s so frigid. (Literally, even—my hand brushed his once, and it was like touching an ice cube.) (Gave me goosebumps all over.)</p><p>“Ebb might be adding a pastry case there soon,” I say, jutting my chin at Baz’s stool. “You won’t be able to sit there judging me any more.”</p><p>One of Baz’s perfect eyebrows shoots up. “Oh?”</p><p>With the tidying done, I come back around the counter. I feel safer back here, even though it technically puts me closer to him. The barrier between us makes it harder for me to do something stupid.</p><p>“Once the kitchen remodel’s done, I’ll be making stuff for this place,” I tell him.</p><p>Baz lowers his eyes, showing off his long lashes as he looks at my hands. “You make pastries?”</p><p>Fuck, my fingers are probably all stained with coffee. I cross my arms and stuff my hands into my armpits. “Y-yeah. I do. I know you think I’m an oaf, but I’m good at it. It’s—it’s what I went to school for.”</p><p>Baz’s gaze jumps back up to mine, and I have to look away. I always try to look at him as little as possible. “That seems fitting,” he murmurs.</p><p>I don’t know what that means, but I can’t help but feel like it’s a dig somehow. No idea why he hates me so much—what have I ever done to piss him off? It’s not my fault I snap at him when he’s being a prick. If he were nicer to me, I’d be nicer back! I’m nice to everyone!</p><p>He just— Even when he’s not saying anything, he just— He makes my blood boil!</p><p>I only realize I’ve been trying to sputter out a response when Agatha flits in from the back room to start her shift. “Oh, hullo, Basil!” she chirps.</p><p>Baz straightens up, his expression smoothing out into nothing. “Agatha,” he says with a short nod, then stands to leave. He gives me a small nod, as well. “Until next time, Snow.”</p><p>He says that every time. Fucking mortifying—he’s the only one who calls me by my middle name.</p><p>I wipe down the workstation, not watching Baz head out. I can see Aggie staring at me in my periphery while she ties on her red apron, but I ignore her. She always does this, gets all weird about Baz. I know she thinks he’s handsome. Can’t really fault her for that. Rubs me the wrong way, though.</p><p>Agatha’s beautiful. Big brown eyes and pale blonde hair. All the blokes that come in here fawn over her. It’s annoying—that they can all fall in love with her so easily, yet I never managed it. Not for lack of trying, mind. We dated for a while, back in secondary school. Been six years since then—we make way better friends and coworkers than anything else.</p><p>But it still makes my stomach twist when her and Baz get all dodgy around each other.</p><p>They’d make a disgustingly fit couple. Have the cutest, poshest babies.</p><p>“What did you and Basil talk about today?” Aggie asks.</p><p>“We didn’t—we don’t—we never talk.” I keep cleaning. I like working here because it keeps me busy. It’ll be even better once I can get to baking in the back.</p><p>I might be too busy to serve Baz his stupid pumpkin diabetes drink once that happens—</p><p>“It’s okay if you don’t want to tell me.”</p><p>Something about the way she says it makes my neck feel hot.</p><p>“Though, I’m starting to get worried you two will never get your acts together,” Agatha continues, leaning against the till with a sigh. Penny always sighs at me the same way when she thinks I’m being especially thick.</p><p>I check to make sure we have enough cold brew going. “My act is just fine—<em>he’s</em> the judgemental twat. If he hates me so much, he should stop coming here! The coffee’s not <em>that</em> good.”</p><p>“Simon,” Agatha says slowly, “do you really not get it?”</p><p>“Get what?”</p><p>She stares at me. It’s nothing like the way Baz does it. “Basil comes here <em>to see you</em>.”</p><p>I dart my gaze about, trying to find something else to do. “No, he doesn’t—”</p><p>“Simon—”</p><p>I’m saved from the conversation by someone coming through the door. I put on my best customer service smile.</p><p>“Hullo and welcome to Ebb’s!”</p><p> </p>
<hr class="new"/><p> </p><p>Penny and Agatha have been my best mates since we were eleven. The three of us know each other better than we know ourselves sometimes. We’ve been together through thick and thin, and I would literally lay down my life for them. And I think they would do the same. Well, maybe not Agatha—that’s not really her style....</p><p>The point is, they mean the world to me. But I might fucking pop them both in the nose if they don’t stop ogling my every interaction with Baz.</p><p>It’s bad enough when it’s just one of them. When Aggie’s on shift <em>and</em> Pen’s all cosied up in her booth with her thesis materials, it’s too much to handle. Him watching me, them watching us. It makes me want to explode and burn the whole place down. (I would never actually do that to Ebb—she’s the closest thing to a mum I’ve got.) (But God, the temptation is there.)</p><p>Today’s one of those days where Baz doesn’t stay long. He puts the lid back on his drink once he’s lapped up the cream, then he meets my eyes. His lips part, like he has something to say—makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.</p><p>Baz briefly flicks his gaze to Agatha over my shoulder, shuts his mouth, then tries again, “Until next week, Snow.”</p><p>I sag against the counter once he’s gone.</p><p>“I can’t stand it!” Penny groans from halfway across the shop.</p><p>“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it?” Agatha cries.</p><p>“Stop it!” I fuss with my visor because I’ve got nothing better to do with my hands. “We’re not talking about this!”</p><p>“Talking about <em>what</em>, Simon?” Penny jeers.</p><p>“Nothing! There’s nothing to talk about!”</p><p> </p>
<hr class="new"/><p> </p><p>I’m rooting around under the bar, reorganizing the fridge to fit the new pitchers of iced tea I’ve got steeping.</p><p>It’s another slow day at the coffee shop. Penny’s here, but she’s got her nose in her books. It’s been hard to keep busy, keep my mind occupied. And when I’m not occupied, I start to think. Dark, anxious thoughts—ones I’ve been working on with my therapist for a while now. It’s hard to untrain those patterns after so many years of being an unwanted kid in foster care. But I’m working on it. Learning to like myself, even when no one else does.</p><p>I hear the bell on the door jingle, and I call out, “Welcome!” When I jump to my feet, I see Baz striding towards me. My face does that awful thing where I turn into a splotchy tomato, I can feel it.</p><p>Fuck—</p><p>I duck my head and start punching in his order. “Large pumpkin mocha breve?”</p><p>Baz slides up to the till and brandishes his credit card in one fluid motion. “What if I wanted something different today?”</p><p>I fluster worse, peering up at him from under my visor. “Did you?”</p><p>“No,” he says easily. “I’m just saying you shouldn’t assume, Snow.”</p><p>Tosser. I hate how incompetent he makes me feel. Clumsy and ineloquent and ugly and <em>short—</em>Baz is at least three inches taller than me, because <em>of course</em> he is.</p><p>We go through our usual song and dance. He pays, I make his drink, he watches.</p><p>“Snow...”</p><p>My chest feels tight. “Yeah?”</p><p>“I was wondering...”</p><p>He falters, and as usual, I can’t bring myself to look at him. I shove the lid onto his drink and nudge it his way, keeping my eyes on his hands for the pass off. He’s got such nice hands. Long and elegant, with perfectly neat nails and cuticles. Unlike mine. He’s got the hands of a rich bloke. I’ve got the hands of a labourer.</p><p>I don’t know what Baz does for a living—I’ve been trying to suss it out this whole time—but it’s clear by the way he dresses and holds himself that he has money. Judging by the random times Baz comes by, it doesn’t seem like he has any set schedule at all. I bet he lives off a trust fund and plays violin whenever the mood strikes or something. (Aggie lives off a trust fund, but at least she also works at the shop.)</p><p>Baz clears his throat. “Never mind,” he says.</p><p>I’m not sure if I’m disappointed or relieved.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="name">
  <p>BAZ</p>
</div><p>I sink down onto the floor of my studio with Dev and Niall, and we eat curry out of takeaway containers. We try to get together twice a month, outside of football. They’re the only friends I have; Dev is my cousin, and Niall has been with us long enough, he might as well be family at this point. They’ve been with me through … everything.</p><p>We’re surrounded by the evidence of my efforts these past several months: whole trees’ worth of newsprint paper covered in my mad scrawlings and several large canvasses at various degrees of completion. Everywhere I look, Simon Snow Salisbury stares back at me in some form or another.</p><p>“Well,” Niall begins, “did you ask him?”</p><p>I chew on my food so that I don’t have to answer right away.</p><p>“That’s a no,” Dev is quick to say.</p><p>I glare at him as I chew.</p><p>Niall sighs and runs a hand through his hair. It’s curly and red, more so than Snow’s. Niall is a true redhead; Snow merely has these hints of rose gold. My eyes go to one of the paintings—did I make it too red? No, no, it’s all right. It’s close enough, I think. Bronze enough.</p><p>I still can’t get the colour of his eyes, though. The blues I mix are either too arctic or too tropical; they’re never mundane enough.</p><p>This is why Dev and Niall have been pressuring me to ask Snow. To model for me, that is.</p><p>I told them I would ask today. I almost did. <em>“I’m an artist,”</em> I wanted to say. <em>“I was wondering if you’d be interested in modelling for me? I would pay you handsomely.”</em></p><p>I couldn’t bring myself to say it.</p><p>“You’ve got an unhealthy obsession with this guy,” Niall points out. He loves to point that out. “Just ask him already and stop being weird.”</p><p>I bristle. “I’m not being weird. I’m being ... cautious.”</p><p>Dev snorts. “Since when is Baz Pitch a coward?”</p><p>“What am I supposed to do if he says no?” I snap. “It would be a condemnation of all the modelling he’s already unknowingly done for me.”</p><p>“And what if he finds out?” Niall asks.</p><p>I stab at my curry. “He won’t.”</p><p>“If he does?”</p><p>“Then I’ll deal with it.”</p><p>“Hmm, better to ask forgiveness than for permission...?” Dev muses.</p><p>Niall groans. “You’re only digging yourself a deeper hole, mate.”</p><p>“That’s fine,” I mutter. “I’ve felt like I’ve had one foot in the grave most of my life anyway.”</p><p> </p>
<hr class="new"/><p> </p><p>I keep plotting all the different ways to ask him. To tell him. But every time Snow is in front of me, I resort to little jabs instead. He’s so easy to rile ... and I get the feeling he doesn’t mind it all that much. Still. It’s too much of a risk.</p><p>He’s likely straight. I think he’s dating that pretty blonde coworker of his, Agatha. He gets all stroppy when she bats her eyes at me. </p><p>He’ll think I’m a pervert. (I suppose I am one.)</p><p>Dev’s right, I am a coward.</p><p>I don’t know what I would do if Snow rejected me. And why wouldn’t he? I’m the antithesis to him in every way. Better to obsess in secret and let him continue to think I’m merely a stuck-up arsehole.</p><p>I’m fine with playing the villain.</p><p>At least that makes me part of his story.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="name">
  <p>SIMON</p>
</div><p>Summer turns to autumn. The pumpkin mocha latte is officially back on the menu. Making it feels wrong. I always want to go for the half-and-half instead of milk. It’s supposed to be a breve. It’s Baz’s drink.</p><p>The kitchen remodel is done, and there’s now a case with my baked goods on display next to the till. Some things got shifted around, but the bar’s still there.</p><p>Baz looks surprised the first time he sees the new layout. Then, he smirks.</p><p>“Kept my seat after all, Snow?”</p><p>“It’s not your seat,” I mutter, shoving a pastry at him.</p><p>Baz blinks. “What’s this?”</p><p>“What’s it look like?”</p><p>“Did you make this?”</p><p>I huff and wave at his stupid stool. “Try it, go sit—I’ll make you your drink.”</p><p>Surprisingly, Baz does as I say. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him inspecting the pastry before finally breaking off a piece and taking a bite.</p><p>I hope he likes it. I came up with the recipe because of him—marbled pumpkin brownie.</p><p>“<em>Oh,</em>” he gasps.</p><p>I can’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.</p><p> </p>
<hr class="new"/><p> </p><p>I slump into the booth opposite Penny and nudge her books out of the way to make room for my lunch. I’ve been holed up in the kitchen all day—all <em>week</em>, really. The baked goods have been selling really well. Ebb’s thrilled, and so am I. It’s more fulfilling than just making coffee all day, that’s for sure. The customers are so appreciative, you’d think I’m their saviour or something.</p><p>It feels nice ... to be wanted. Useful. Good for something.</p><p>Penny closes her laptop and shoves it to the side.</p><p>“How’s the thesis?” I ask around a mouthful of roast beef sandwich.</p><p>“<em>Euugh</em>.” She rubs at her eyes under her glasses. They’re the pointy, cat eye sort, like witches and librarians wear. They suit her.</p><p>“That good, huh?”</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about it.” Penny pulls out her lunch from her bag. Usually no one’s allowed to bring in outside food and drink, but Penny’s the exception because ... well, because she’s Penny.</p><p>“All right, let’s talk about Baz, then.”</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about that either.”</p><p>“I haven’t mentioned him at all today!” I point out. (Penny put a cap on how often I’m allowed to bring Baz up.)</p><p>Penny rolls her eyes, then starts eating, which is as close to permission as I’m gonna get.</p><p>“Did you see how haggard he looked when he came in the other day? I started to notice a few weeks ago, and it’s worse every time. He looks half-dead—like he hasn’t slept in weeks. What could he possibly be doing that’s affecting his sleep like that? Do you think he’s up to something?”</p><p>Penny wrinkles her nose at me. “Like?”</p><p>“I don’t know,” I huff. “Prowling the streets, looking for victims.”</p><p>“You’re still hung up on this vampire idea, huh?”</p><p>My face heats up. I shrug and take a big bite of my sandwich. Penny sighs.</p><p>I hear Agatha giggle from up by the till. “You know, Simon, if you like vampires that much, I’m sure Basilton would—”</p><p>I start coughing—loudly. Penny rolls her eyes again. She’s gonna roll them right out of their sockets one day.</p><p>The two of them think I’m mad with denial or whatever. I’m not. I know I’m in love with Baz—as much as you can be in love with someone who you only share a few snarky sentences with every week. It’s just ... what’s the point of saying it out loud? It’s not going to do me any good.</p><p>I used to try not to think about Baz—try to apply the same thought-reframing techniques to him that I use for the other stuff. It’s hopeless. I can think myself out of a panic attack pretty successfully these days, but the tightness in my chest and buzzing in my veins when it comes to Baz is something completely different.</p><p> I put all my efforts into trying not to think about how he makes me <em>feel</em>. And what I want from him. And what I want to <em>do</em> to him. But to not think about him <em>at all</em> is impossible.</p><p>Once I’ve drawn out my fake coughing as long as I reasonably can without concerning the shop’s patrons, I figure the girls are going to start in on me again. I want to talk about Baz, not me. Luckily, two new customers come through the door, which means Agatha’s accounted for. (Penny’s always glad to talk about something else.)</p><p>My luck doesn’t hold, though. The customers—two blokes—walk up to me instead of Agatha.</p><p>“Snow, right?” the red-headed one asks.</p><p>I recognize them suddenly as the mates Baz came by with once after football.</p><p>Is this about Baz? It must be about Baz. Oh, fuck, is he ill? Kidnapped? Giving me a restraining order?</p><p>I straighten up in my seat. “Yeah?”</p><p>He slaps a flyer onto the table. “Basil has an opening. Tomorrow evening.”</p><p>I blink wildly at him.</p><p>He sniffs and nudges the flyer my way. “You should come.”</p><p>“...what?”</p><p>The other guy snorts. “Don’t hurt yourself.”</p><p>The redhead nudges his friend, then gives me a nod. The next thing I know, the little bell over the door is ringing again as they leave. I gawp at the flyer.</p><p>It’s a picture of a painting, I think. An explosion of pinks and golds on a cold black background.</p>
<p></p><div class="fancy-title">
  <p>PAINTED BLIND<br/>
══════════════<br/>
Exhibition<br/>
<em>T. Basilton Grimm-Pitch</em>
</p>
</div><p>Agatha comes around to wipe down a table near us. “What is it?” she whispers.</p><p>I launch out of my seat and swing into Penny’s side of the booth. She shoves over without pause, tearing open her laptop and opening a new browser tab before I even have to say a word.</p><p>We find his website right away.</p><p>“He’s a painter,” I breathe.</p><p>“A great one,” Penny mumbles. “He’s famous....”</p><p>She’s right. There are so many hits. And so many reviews, and art prints, and—oh, God—there are <em>mugs</em>. Novelty mugs with his art on them. I bet he fucking hates that.</p><p>Agatha gives up the guise of cleaning, and the three of us crowd around Penny’s laptop, exploring Baz’s works. They’re all weird—dark and abstract. I keep telling Penny to click on interviews where Baz is asked about the pieces, but from what we can find, he doesn’t like to speak about them much.</p><p><em>‘Every picture tells a story,’</em> he’s quoted as saying often. <em>‘The stories I infuse into my art are irrelevant; for that one instant, the only story that exists is the one the viewer sees.’</em></p><p>“So he’s exactly as pretentious as we thought,” Agatha says casually. I smirk.</p><p>Penny keeps clicking around. “Most of his pieces are obviously about death. Why doesn’t he just say that?”</p><p>I shrug. “He did, didn’t he? By painting it?”</p><p>Penny gives a dissatisfied harrumph. For someone doing her masters degree in Psychology, she’s pretty dismissive of how other people process stuff. Thankfully, she plans to stay on the research side of things.</p><p>I stare at the flyer again, turning it over in my hands and reading the details on the back.</p><p>Agatha pats my shoulder then floats back towards the till. “Well, I think it’s charming, and you should go!”</p><p>“I can’t ... I’m on shift tomorrow evening.”</p><p>“Oh, stop; I’ll cover you!”</p><p>“B-but,” I bluster, “tomorrow’s Saturday, you’ve got your—your horse things.”</p><p>Agatha tuts—I never remember the right equestrian terms and whatever. (One of many reasons why we were a bad couple.) “It’s fine, I don’t have a competition tomorrow. I’ll practice in the morning and be here to cover you by the afternoon.”</p><p>“Y-you’re sure?”</p><p>“Of course!”</p><p>Penny leans in against my arm. “And I’ll go with as emotional support,” she says.</p><p>They really are the best.</p><p> </p>
<hr class="new"/><p> </p><p>I’ve spent way too much of the past twenty-four hours staring at Baz’s paintings online. Penny was right, obviously—they really are all mostly about death. Death and cold and loss and blood. (Maybe he really is a vampire....)</p><p>His mum died when he was young, I found out. I didn’t read on past that. It felt wrong. Whatever details Baz wanted to be public, he put into his paintings—that’s enough for me. Maybe he’ll tell me the rest of the story himself one day. Maybe I’ll get to tell him mine.</p><p>This exhibition, though ...</p><p>Penny and I have only made it a few feet into the gallery, but we can already tell these paintings are completely different.</p><p>There’s the palette, obviously. Baz has switched out his typical sad, icy colours for fiery, lively ones. Before, the occasional splash of red would cut through his work like a knife, and now there’s the opposite—a hint of blue here and there, like a peaceful, cloudless sky.</p><p>“Huh...,” Penny murmurs.</p><p>I’m not good with this stuff. I can’t really tell what any of it’s supposed to <em>be</em> or <em>mean</em>. All I can tell is that it feels ... warm. And exciting. And ...</p><p>Penny and I cock our heads at one of the paintings. My neck gets hot.</p><p>There’s something ... erotic about them, as well.</p><p>I’m probably imagining it.</p><p>We shuffle through the crowd. It’s hard to shut out the many conversations—they’re all nattering about the paintings over cocktails and little hors d’oeuvres. I’ve yet to spot a snack table. Or should I be keeping my eye out for a waiter with a silver tray? This event is kind of fancier than I expected. I’m glad I wore trousers and a button-up, and not my usual black tee and black jeans. Though I’ve still got on my worn-out trainers and am feeling real naff about it—</p><p>Penny tugs on my arm, dragging me to the painting that was on the flyer. It’s massive and way more impressive in person. It simultaneously looks more like an explosion and also more like, I dunno, flower petals, or something. A rose bomb.</p><p>Eventually, we’re able to get close enough to read the little label next to the piece:</p>
<p></p><div class="label">
  <p><span class="big">CHOSEN ONE</span><br/>
<em>Oil on canvas</em>
</p>
</div><p>No explanation. Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.</p><p>The next one we stop at is just a bunch of random rose-gold splatters of paint, far as I can tell. It’s called <em>Constellations</em>, but with the colours the way they are, it looks more like ...</p><p>I drop my gaze to my forearm. My sleeves are cuffed to my elbows because being in crowds always makes me overheat. My freckles are on full display.</p><p>When I look up, Penny’s staring at my arm, too. “Huh,” she repeats.</p><p>I’m burning up in here. I look around again for wherever people are getting their refreshments from. Some water would be great right about now.</p><p>My attention’s pulled away by a piece across the room. It’s one of those strange sorts of paintings that I suppose are about colour theory or whatever. This one is dots again, but they’re precise. Three of them in a triangle formation that’s eerily similar to the moles on my right cheek.</p><p>I push Penny along.</p><p>We pause at a painting that’s starker than the others. It seems animated somehow. Kind of makes me think of straining muscles. There’s all these semicircular marks that keep throwing me off, though. Maybe those are flexing muscles?</p><p>I read the label:</p>
<p></p><div class="label">
  <p><span class="big">BREVE</span><br/>
<em>Oil on canvas</em>
</p>
  <p>/bri:v/<em> n.</em>, A written or printed mark (˘) indicating a short or unstressed vowel</p>
</div><p>I gulp.</p><p>It’s a throat. A bobbing, stuttering throat.</p><p>“Simon...,” Pen begins slowly.</p><p>“A drink,” I blurt. “I need to— I’ll go—”</p><p>Penny gives me a reassuring smile. “All right. I’ll stay put so you know where to find me.”</p><p>“Thanks.”</p><p>The second I round the corner, I spot him.</p><p>Baz.</p><p>How could I not? My eyes always want to go straight to him.</p><p>He’s wearing a sleek black suit with a black shirt buttoned to his throat. In place of a tie, he’s got a gold chain clipped across his collar. There’s a red, understated felted rose pinned to his left lapel. He’s so striking, I can’t look at him directly. Fuck, I can <em>never</em> look at him directly.</p><p>There are some people chatting with him while they all sip champagne. I shouldn’t interrupt. I should go before he sees me. Penny’s waiting. I’ve got to find us drinks—</p><p>I jump when someone claps me on the back. It’s Baz’s friend, the one who snorted at me. “Glad you could make it, Chosen One. Have you said hi to Basil yet?”</p><p>“I— No, I— Uh—”</p><p>“Go on, then.”</p><p>“He’s— No, I shouldn’t, he’s busy, I—”</p><p>I glance back over to Baz, and there’s his redhead friend breaking up the conversation. And then I’m getting shoved forward, and—oh no, oh fuck—</p><p>I stumble to a stop a few feet away from Baz, and when he catches sight of me, I swear to God the whole room goes silent for a heart-stopping moment. Baz stares at me like he never has before, all the colour draining from his face. Probably horrified to see the plonker that brews his coffee at a fancy event like this.</p><p>Well. No turning back now.</p><p>I scrub my hand through my curls and take a few steps closer. “Hi.”</p><p>Baz’s jaw works soundlessly for a moment. Then, he clears his throat and gets out, “Hello.”</p><p>“C-congrats. Um. For,”—I gesture lamely—“all this.”</p><p>The corner of Baz’s mouth twitches into a smile for the briefest moment. “Thank you, Snow. How did you…?”</p><p>“Your footie mates came by the shop. Gave me the flyer, insisted I come.”</p><p>Baz exhales through his nose. “That sounds like them,” he mutters.</p><p>“I— I, um. I don’t really … <em>get</em> all this. Abstract art. I feel like maybe I’m … r-reading too much into it.”</p><p>He’s watching me with those shark-grey eyes of his, one eyebrow slightly elevated. I can’t meet his gaze—I try to look at anything but him. I can feel his intense stare burning into the right side of my face.</p><p>“One could argue that’s the point,” he says cautiously.</p><p>My eyes slide over to the nearest painting. Hard angles and warm colours. Squares with brown, burnt edges. Coffee stains.</p><p>“I feel like you’re saying something to me,” I confess.</p><p>“You, specifically?”</p><p>I flush hot with embarrassment. I’m being a total idiot, aren’t I? Thinking this is about me. Why would any of this be about me? A whole fucking posh art gallery, and I’m stupid enough to believe I’m the main focus?</p><p>“N-never mind—”</p><p>I need to get out of here before I make a bigger arse of myself. I turn to leave, but I’m shocked still by a cold grip around my wrist and Baz’s desperate “Wait!”</p><p>When I gawk at him, Baz snatches his hand back and stares into his drink with the most sheepish pout I’ve ever seen.</p><p>“Sorry,” he says, then licks his lips. “I don’t … know how to say it. I can create two dozen paintings, yet never find the words....”</p><p>I stare at him. I let myself really stare.</p><p>Christ, he’s dead handsome. And so nervous—he never holds his drink this tight when he’s at the shop, and he never looks away from me for this long. His hair is falling in his face, shoulders slightly stooped.</p><p>Like this, he’s not nefarious at all, is he? He’s not a pretentious twat. He’s not completely out of my league.</p><p>He’s just a man.</p><p>I sputter, because that’s all I ever do around him. “Every—uh—every picture tells a story, y-yeah?”</p><p>Baz huffs a clipped laugh. “Yeah.”</p><p>My heart’s in my throat. Baz seems about ready to self-immolate. If there weren’t all these people around, I might throw myself at him. Fuck all the doubt—I could smash our mouths together and get a real answer on what’s going on between us.</p><p>Except I can’t, because I don’t want to turn us into a spectacle when all these folk are here to focus on Baz’s work.</p><p>And since I already know Baz to be the silent, brooding artist type … <em>I’ve</em> got to be the courageous one and use my words.</p><p> </p>
<p></p><div class="name">
  <p>BAZ</p>
</div><p>While this isn’t the worst thing to ever happen to me, it’s certainly up there.</p><p>Snow pushes his shoulders back. “Is it really me?” he asks firmly.</p><p>I wonder what it would take to set this entire gallery ablaze. Not much—the building is mostly made of wood, and oil paintings are extremely flammable....</p><p>What’s the point? He’s already seen my heart laid bare.</p><p>Isn’t that what I wanted?</p><p>“I … yes.” I do wish the ground would swallow me up, though. Being buried alive would surely be less torturous than this. “I’m sorry, I realize this all is terribly invasive—”</p><p>“W-well, it’s—”</p><p>“I wanted to ask you—your permission—and to model for me—so many times—but—”</p><p>“Baz—”</p><p>“I couldn’t risk it—I didn’t want to lose the one good thing I finally found—”</p><p>“<em>Baz</em>,” he snaps, snatching up my free hand. “Will you <em>please</em> shut the fuck up?”</p><p>I gape at him. Snow scowls back magnificently. He has the best scowl. He does this lovely thing with his chin ...</p><p>Satisfied with my stunned silence, Snow squeezes my hand tighter. (He’s even warmer than I imagined.) “L-look. I’m shit with words, all right? A-and I can’t explain it all with my hands like you’ve done—I can’t create like that—”</p><p>“You’re a pastry chef,” I remind him.</p><p>Snow scrunches his brow at me in confusion. “That’s not the same.”</p><p>“You make me coffee twice a week.”</p><p>“I make everyone coffee....”</p><p>“You make me <em>special</em> coffee. Off-menu, fancy coffee with too much whipped cream.”</p><p>Snow growls and tugs at my hand, causing me to stumble towards him. I might be swooning. “Stop making this so difficult,” he grunts.</p><p>My face is on fire. Or perhaps I’m merely feeling the heat radiating from the roses in his cheeks. Even his lips are a lovely shade of red. I want to kiss them, now more than ever.</p><p>Snow stammers on: “What—what I was trying to say is— I, um. Baz, this whole— I’m— When you— <em>Fuck</em>.”</p><p>I should do it. Kiss him. Put us both out of our misery.</p><p>Snow shakes his head like he’s at his limit, then yanks my hand up to his mouth. We both stop breathing as he presses his carmine-tinted lips to my palm. It’s a long press. Snow’s eyes are closed, his stubby golden lashes resting on his flushed cheeks. He’s more beautiful than any painting could ever say, though my fingers twitch from inspiration just the same. Snow eases back, sets his undefinable blue eyes on me, and we both breathe again.</p><p>“Does that ... make sense...?” he whispers.</p><p>“No,” I say. His jaw drops, and I laugh, “It doesn’t make any sense at all. But I understood perfectly. And I agree.”</p><p>Snow blinks at me for a moment. Then he laughs, as well. He’s never laughed for me before.</p><p>I take a steadying inhale. “Snow?”</p><p>He swallows. I slip my hand from his grip to trail my fingertips down his neck. He shudders, swallowing again, and I feel the shifting muscles and flutter of his pulse. It’s good. It’s beyond good.</p><p>“Y-yeah?” he croaks.</p><p>I need more.</p><p>“Model for me?”</p><p>Snow laughs again. “Not what I thought you were gonna ask,” he admits. “Isn’t the series done?”</p><p>“The story isn’t.”</p><p>He bites his lip, grinning and giving me a look that is searingly inappropriate for how many people are milling around us. “<em>Basilton</em>, are you asking to paint me like one of your French girls?”</p><p>I’m grinning, as well. I can’t resist. His heartbeat is rough against my hand, travelling up my arm and spurring my own on like it’s a challenge. God, he makes me feel so <em>alive</em>.</p><p>“<em>Simon</em>,” I breathe, “you’re an idiot. Yes or no?”</p><p>“Yes.” He grins wider. “But you’ll have to take me to dinner first.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I hope you enjoyed this, xivz~ 🖤 Thank you for sharing your wonderful works with us!<br/>And thank you, aralias and giishu, for organizing this event! It's been so super fun. What a fantastic fandom we have.<br/>And thank YOU for reading, 🖤</p></blockquote></div></div>
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